


I Don't Want To Start A Fight (wouldn't you rather start a riot?)

by KryOnBlock



Series: The Piglin Way [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: A lot of References to Hamilton, Angst, BAMF Philza, BAMF Ranboo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Phil and Techno are best friends, Phil-centric fic, Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), References to SMPEarth, Violence, Wilbur Soot is Phil's Son, almost brothers, but like, feralboo, feralza, lmao what a noob, major terrorism, mr minecraft speedran all the others and got stuck in rage, not beta read we die like l'manburg, only him, the tags we deserve and need, this is specialized in only rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KryOnBlock/pseuds/KryOnBlock
Summary: An universal ping rang out from behind him, the third and final he knew, and Phil sobbed, clutching the body tighter.Techno didn’t move.It always has been Technoblade and Philza, Philza and Technoblade. Take one half, and you shall never go back.
Relationships: Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Philza, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Philza, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Philza
Series: The Piglin Way [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137068
Comments: 105
Kudos: 753





	I Don't Want To Start A Fight (wouldn't you rather start a riot?)

**Author's Note:**

> *breakdances slowly* this took a lot of time i am sorry not sorry.  
> Title comes from Anarchy, by Cece Duarte
> 
> CW for: Character Death, mentions of graphic violence, and general themes around grief/mourning.
> 
> Ranboo wasn't supposed to be here, but feralboo is too strong to resist.
> 
> Alternative title: Phil and Ranboo go feral go crazy go stupid

It was raining.

Phil frowned, extending his wing as holding it above Ranboo’s head, the fishing rod left abandoned in the docks. He had thought today would be sunny, but it didn’t matter. Normally, he would continue fishing, rain was, after all, one of his favorite things in the world, but he could hear the vague sizzling coming from Ranboo as tiny drops of water weaved between his feathers and fell onto the hybrid, so he sighed and carefully shed his haori, the cloth resistant to water as almost all of his things.

“Put it on'' he said, passing it to Ranboo and then carefully picking up the fishing rods. “Or at least, use it as a shield. I don’t think my wings are exactly water-proof”

The kid hesitated but nodded, splotches of red skin now appearing where water managed to land. What a scam, he thought, as they carefully made their way back home, for today to start raining just when Ranboo had forgotten his umbrella back home.

“I’m really sorry Phil, I know how much you wanted to fish today” said the kid, starting to apologize, one clawed hand carefully holding the haori above his head while the other fidgeted with his tie. “If I hadn’t forgotten my umbrella…”

“Mate, it doesn't matter” Phil sighed, “Even if you had your umbrella I would have made us go back. Rain clearly makes you uncomfortable”

“...But you didn’t have to”

Phil rolled his eyes and continued on, Ranboo following hunched so the wing could properly cover him.

The walk back to New L’manburg wasn’t long, filled with the white noise of rain falling onto the rain, Phil enjoying the small pocket of peace. It was hard, these days, to find these small moments of pleasant silence, especially when he couldn’t go see Techno. His old friend was always a balm, a rock against the storm of the sea that he could always trust to help him enjoy the silence; but the government of NLM was very paranoid, especially hateful towards Techno, every street filled with blatant propaganda against the piglin. 

Phil personally thought it was stupid, being so against someone who had clearly given up on “terrorizing” the country, when considering how many months have passed since _that_ day. He had seen Techno, armour stored deep in the chest and lounging around in his couch, taped glasses as he tried to read the Illiad for the hundredth time at the low light of the fireplace. 

_“I am… well, you could say I’m tired Phil”_

_The blond had paused, turning off the stove and turning around to look at his friend, the piglin sat down heavily in one of the chairs of the dinning table. “What do you mean, mate?”_ _  
  
_

_“It just..” Techno hissed, passing a hand through his matted and dirty pinkish fur, looking surprisingly stressed for a guy who claimed to be retired “I am so tired Phil. I don’t think they will ever give it up”_

_“You’re giving up?”_

_“He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight” Techno recited, barely ducking the cloth scrap Phil threw at him._

_“Shut up! You are such a nerd” Phil laughed, bringing the tea to the table. “But seriously, are you actually… giving up? Never thought i would see the great Technoblade give up”_

_The piglin shrugged, uncaring, and leaned forward to grab the offered mug of tea, breathing in the calming scent of lavender._

_“I’m retired Philza, what can I say?” Techno laughed, and it was snowing outside, but Phil has never felt more warm._

“Oh! We’re back!” Ranboo exclaimed, making Phil turn away from his memories to look up, smiling as he saw the stilts of the country come into view, the man-made lake beneath it looking as flourishing as always.

“Let’s go, I am so ready to change clothes” Phil jokes, Ranboo’s laugh a chiming sound to disrupt the oppressive silence that had fallen over the city as they entered. It made something inside of him squirm, not liking how quiet the normally bustling city was.

When they finally got to the stairs leading to their houses they fell silent, Phil barely managing to evade the shards of glass in the floor, his claws making a scratching sound against the wood as he tried to keep his balance.

“The fuck?” He muttered, carefully going up, and pausing in front of his house, something heavy forming in his chest.

“Wha- _Oh”_ Ranboo said, standing alongside the avian and watching the trashed building.

The door was toor from its hinges, half laying on the floor, splinters of wood covering the whole floor. The windows were smashed to bits, the glass cracking under their feet as they approached. Dread gathered in Phil’s heart as he carefully entered his house, sword in hand and one wing half raised to stop Ranboo from entering.

The inside were bare, furniture turned upside down or smashed to bits, materials and items littering the floor, as the intruder clearly had been searching for something. Ranboo ducked his head under the doorway as he entered, frown stuck on his face as his long ears swiveled around, nodding once at Phil’s silent question.

Relaxing a little at the sign of them being alone in the house, Phil sighed, hands on his hips as he surveyed the damage.

“Who the fuck would do this?” He questioned, as he started the long process of turning the barrels to their original positions, Ranboo carefully picking each item from the floor that was salvageable.

“I… I don’t know? Did they take anything of value?” Phil scoffed, toeing around the broken glass and poking carefully at the torn up floor. 

“Nah, everything valuable is mostly at my other bases” He explained, “The only important thing that could be here is probably on the ender chest”

An universal ping ran through their communicators, Phil not even bothering to check what happened as he continued to clean. Whoever had intruded in his house clearly didn’t have respect, he grumbled, as he scooped back the wool and planks onto the intact chests.

“Oh no” Ranboo said, looking at his communicator, tail swinging rapidly behind him, ears tense against his head. “Oh no”

“What happened?” He asked, pausing and closing the chest lid, frowning as he saw Ranboo’s hands start to tremble.

“They, Phil they, they said they wouldn’t do it” Ranboo said, still looking at his communicator “They, Phil I swear, they said they would let it go, Phil, I-” 

“Ranboo, calm down” 

“I, I don’t understand? How did they find him!? Phil I swear it wasn’t me, i told them to leave him alone, Phil, i told them!” Ranboo's hands continued to shake, the enderman hybrid staring at him with something close to despair, anxiousness clear on his face “They swore they wouldn’t Phil, I didn’t know!”

Phil pried, but Ranboo wouldn’t answer, continuing to repeat that he didn’t know, hands shaking so much he was surprised he could still grasp his communicator. A second universal ping went out, and Ranboo let out a startled vwoop, almost stumbling to the ground.

Confused, Phil reached into his pockets, deciding to see what was happening, Ranboo’s frantic pleas falling into the background as he stared at the message blinking across the screen. 

  
  


**Technoblade was slain by Quackity**

_Ponk: ?!??!!!?  
  
_

_Awesamdude: the hell?!?_

_Karl: What._

**Technoblade was slain by Fundy**

_Eret: Fundy?!?_

_Nihachu: What is happening?_

  
  
  


It felt as if everything went dark, as Phil continued to stare at the screen. It was almost as he was submerged underwater, everything turning to white noise, meaningless, as he tried to understand what was in front of him, the bolded words practically mocking his eyes as he stared and stared.

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds before adrenaline kicked in, his communicator falling to the floor as he bolted outside, his wings snapping open and jumping into the air, faltering a few seconds as the multiple wings got used to working once again, before he took altitude and started flying towards the north, where Techno’s tundra was awaiting.

New L’manburg fell behind, barely a speck of colour, as he flew and flew, urging his wings to go as fast as they could, ignoring how his muscles burned with the abrupt exertion he was inflicting on them. The wind made his eyes water, causing him to rapidly blink, but he didn’t pause nor slow down, ignoring everything as he flew almost as fast as the air, riding every current until he finally saw the cottage he considered a second home come into view.

He dived down, wings closing shut against his body as he went down fast, the snapping air biting against his down feathers on the face, tugging almost painfully, as he opened the wings and fell into the ground, the snow barely helping to soften the landing.

Without taking a second, Phil stood up and ran towards the house, ignoring the wet crunching snow underneath him, the red splashed around the property, storming inside the cottage. The house seemed just as he had last seen it, the fire even still crackling in the chimney, the only difference being the enderman normally sitting nearby was gone. It was very silent, and he called out for Techno, ignoring how cracked his voice sounded like against the stifling silence of the house.

He went into the attic, also without anyone in it, the enchanting table standing in the middle of the room, a bed shoved to the side, the covers still crumpled from when the owner was probably sleeping. He saw the bell, hanging proudly on the low roof, and tried to swallow back the hurt rising like a tide in his throat.

Then, he heard it, a tiny whimper, almost imperceptible if not for how intently Phil was listening. He practically flew down, jumping down the ladder and recoiling at the sight in front of him. The brick stone floor was covered in blood, the doors hanging open wide.

He scanned the room and barely hesitated before running towards the corner, where a figure was slumped against the side, almost shaking hands carefully turning them towards the side, breath hitching as he stared at the unconscious face of his best friend.

Blood dripped sluggishly from his side, an arrow sticking out of it, the body curled around it. He carefully touched it and hissed at how cold the other felt, when normally the piglin ran like a furnace internally. He propped him up carefully, one hand resting on Techno’s neck, cradling the head carefully and ignoring the familiar nudge the other gave, even unconscious, leaning into the touch; as he started opening the chests around in desperate search of anything to help. 

“Fuck!” He screamed when he saw everything empty, the chests probably ransacked because he refused to believe Techno didn’t have anything, it simply wasn’t in the nature of the other to not have at least a little bit of anything. He bit his lip and carefully let Techno rest against the wall, before running upstairs, flicking everything open in search of anything, anything that could help.

It was all empty, and now that he was looking, he could see the signs of people that had been searching through the chest. He tried to urge down the wrath inside of him screaming for him to go hunt those thieves, those bastards down, as he continued to search. The golden apples, the potions, the food, everything was taken, and Phil mourned the fact that he had run out without taking any supplies with him.

He dove for the ender chest, kicking it open and ignoring the icy tendrils curling around his arms as he searched for anything he could have inside, coming up victorious with a few golden apples and a healing potion.

He came back downstairs, knees scraping against the floor as he dropped down, uncorking the potion and ignoring how cold and clammy the other’s skin was.

“Come on, come on” Phil muttered, leaning the head back and taking a golden apple, trying to wake techno up so he could take a bite. “Wake up, come on mate”

It was worthless, Techno only whimpered at the movement, the sound feeling like a wound shot as he shushed him gently, leaving the apples behind. He decided to try with the potion, trying to pour it down the other’s throat, but his hands shook too much and he could barely grap the glass bottle, half of the potion spilling down before he could manage to make the other drink anything, instantly dropping the bottle to massage the throat in hope he would swallow it. “Come on, please”

The skin barely managed to regain some color, but it still felt too cold, too clammy, and he cursed, loudly and violently, when remembering he hadn’t poured any of the potion on the wound, which was probably the fault of everything. He took his sword and carefully ripped open the clothes around, hissing at the sight of the injury, the arrow almost so deep he was surprised it hadn’t pierced the back. 

He paused, hand hovering over the arrow, as he tried to think of what to do. The arrow was stuck in the side, above the hip, and Phil was pretty sure it punctured a lung or the stomach (or probably both, considering the angle it had). He couldn’t remove it, not if he wanted to worsen the wound, and he didn’t have anything to heal it, most of his supplies spread over his secret bases and the ones he had here, probably taken by the people who had caused this.

“Fuck!” He screamed, taking in a shuddering breath and curling around Techno, his forehead resting against the other’s chest, his labored breath a poison to his ears as he held the piglin and tried to not cry. “Please, please Techno”

He didn’t have anything, he couldn’t do anything.

He was helpless.

“Techno, please” He breathed out, hands tightening around the unconscious piglin “Please, don’t leave me”

He doesn’t know how long he stayed there just holding the other, just enjoying the slow and struggling heartbeat that denoted the other was still alive, that hadn’t left him behind. There were so many words, so many promises, so much he could try to say, words stuck between his teeth as he looked at one of the closest players he had ever known, but what use could the words have, when the intended was unconscious and would probably never wake up? 

He just curled around Techno, one hand carefully holding the head close, enjoying the small warmth, the heartbeat, that he knew would soon fade. He just held Techno, kneeling on the floor as the arctic wind snapped outside, sneaking inside through the open doors, shushing the other gently, wings carefully covering him when he shivered.

He brushed the fur of the head, a lump on his throat as he watched how even unconscious, techno leaned into the touch, and tried to not cry.

He could hear footsteps outside, slowly getting closer and closer, but he ignored them, focusing on the other. Had he always looked that small? That relaxed? That vulnerable? It felt impossible to see this curled body to the imposing figure Techno usually had, a raging fire standing brightly against everything. 

An universal ping rang out from behind him, the third and final he knew, and Phil sobbed, clutching the body tighter.

Techno didn’t move.

* * *

  
  
  


It takes more than one can say for Phil to finally leave.

There was someone outside, he can see it in the footprints left on the snow, but he feels so detached, so tired, he can't even entertain the idea of going and finding who it was. It feels as if he is behind a glass, watching everything go through a thick haze, lost in himself. 

He watched his own hands, moving and turning them, watching the dried up blood on his sharp claws, and wondered if this is all real. It doesn’t feel like it, not really. It reminds him so much of the last time he was in this situation, watching the blood of his son dripping off his hands; but now there is no soothing presence guiding him away, there’s no old friend to help him gather himself, there is no one here, besides himself and the corpse downstairs.

He shudders a breath and goes through the familiar notion of looking through the chests, in search of a shovel. Something small, bitter and angry inside of him screams he shouldn’t find this familiar, the searching of a shovel for a grave, but the majorly tired part of him only sighs and picks up the netherite shovel. 

The cold wind outside is almost a relief, biting into his face and tugging painfully at his smaller wings, feet sinking into the snow. He stands at the porch for a second, eyes lost on the horizon, and wonders why must he outlive everyone who is precious to him.

The snow is pressed, various footsteps having smoothed it down, and the stench of blood is stronger here than before, in the damp floor where his best friend (his brother, he wanted to say once and will never be able to now) rests. He can see a bed, slowly gathering snow, in the middle of it, small trinkets resting on top of it. The shine of a silver necklace with an emerald brings the lump on his throat higher, and Phil carefully stumbles towards it, ignoring how his body almost doesn’t want to work as he carefully cradles the necklace.

It shines brightly, a beacon on the dark day that it is for Phil, and he slowly takes out his own jewelry, the emerald earring dull, cracked, barely holding together. He carefully breathes in and out, holding the pieces together as best as he can.

He turns and looks at the place surrounding the bed, he supposes was Techno’s last spawn, and imprints the image inside of his brain. The whole floor is covered in blood, and he can see the shapes of a body in the wet snow near, where the majority of the blood pools. There’s two shapes, and an indent where he guesses someone was forced to kneel, and disgust rises higher and higher in his heart. There’s a crossbow laying nearby, the green poison known to be used on arrows staining the wood of the handle, and Phil knows he found the murder weapon.

The wall of the house is not so much better, bloody hands printed into the stone bricks, and Phil knows, he knows, that Techno wasn’t let gently into the afterlife, that his first deaths were not merciful. The struggle, the amount of blood, everything paints a much clearer image in his mind.

The beast inside of him claims for blood, for revenge for someone taking someone of his flock, and he shushes the monster that is inside gently. He will get his revenge, his retribution, but for now he must care for the things of his friend.

He leaves the massacre scene behind, and turns, towards the bee farm. The glass is shattered, and he can see slashes on the hives that he and Techno had spent so long trying to create for the bees. The farm is mostly destroyed, flowers torn up and chest broken in half, and when he peers into the redstone, he can see most of it was taken.

He manages to find one single hive intact, and when he presses his head closer, he can hear the faint buzzing of the insects inside, so he carefully takes the hive and puts it into the Player bubble of his inventory, knowing it will be safe there. The stable is almost in the same conditions as the bee farm, and he cannot see any traces of Carl. He probably was taken, he thinks bitterly, and considers going to check the turtles before deciding to first take care of the body inside.

He takes techno into his arms, and mourns how surprisingly light he is in his embrace, as he brings him upstairs and carefully deposits him on the table. 

It is a horrible work, carefully mending whatever wounds and washing away the blood on his friend’s fur, brushing it to get rid of the tangles. Doing it with Wilbur was already painful enough even if he had company that time, but having to do so with Techno, alone in the middle of nowhere, breaks him in so many ways he can’t explain. They were supposed to be always alive, the two against the world, no matter what, and as he carefully changes the body into the best clothes he can find, wonders why the Universe is so insistent in taking everything from him.

Techno looks… Tiny, sprawled in the table, in the best clothes he had, the fluffy cloak almost dragging into the floor. He always had a thing for appearing bigger, he thinks mournfully, remembering the boots Techno had made specifically for appearing taller. The piglin always wanted to appear intimidating, bigger, so people would leave him alone.

It didn’t work this time, he thinks.

He brings him carefully outside, bundled on his arms and one set of wings carefully covering him from the wind and snow raining down. He has a bunch of wood on his inventory already, and sighs, starting the trek towards the edge of the terrain, where the ocean meets the ice and it expands outwards. He doesn’t know if piglins have any funerary rites specifically, and he doesn’t even know if Techno would want them, remembering the slow nights when the other would talk about how he was raised in Hypixel, not with his pack or any mobs similar.

He doubts he would appreciate harpy’s rites, and he doesn’t think he would be strong enough for them. But there’s still the Empire way, as he finally gets to the edge of the shore and sighs, carefully crafting a boat and depositing the other inside.

Normally, the corpses would be brought to the center of the Empire, and either be deposited under the portal in the lava, their ashes lifting and flying into the end portal; or the bodies would be brought to the edge of the country, shipped into boats with all of their riches and set on fire, someone later collecting the ashes and letting them spread over the person’s favourite thing.

But this is the SMP, so Phil carefully deposits into the boat all that he has, the gold carefully laid like a halo around Techno’s head, the crown laying in his chest, emeralds and the Axe of peace, the tool he managed to find while searching through the chests, laying at his feet. The tool never was used for its intended use, the blade dulled from how much wood it collected and chopped down, and he finds it appropriate for Techno, giving him away with the only tool that was never laid in blood.

He hesitates, and carefully cuts a small handful of fur, putting it inside of a pouch he carefully lays inside of his ender chest. He doesn’t think he will ever be ready to let him go, never truly, and he knows the sentiment would have gone both ways. Then, carefully, he takes a feather of each wing, ignoring the prickling sensation, and lays them over Techno’s heart. His rites call for him to shed his wings, his feathers and give them up as the final bed for his friend, but there are not enough feathers for that, when it is only him the Harpy of the server instead of a flock (Alone, with no family left). Still, he hopes his friend can understand the sentiment from over the veil, as he carefully sends the boat off, rocking between the waves and slowly going away.

He knocks an arrow back and sighs, wings shuddering behind him.

“I’ll see you soon Techno, take care” He says, and lets the arrow fly, watching the small sun appear between the waves in the horizon. It feels final, but Phil must accept it.

Techno is dead, and there is no coming back from it.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The walk back home is silent, the only sound that of the wind in his ears as he traverses the difficult snow.

The house is silent too, no sound of crackling fireplace, no sound of an Enderman in a boat, nothing to signify that someone ever lived here. It is a ghost of a house, this place, and he doesn’t think he could stay. But there’s history in these walls, in the hand sewn blanket, the knitting lying close to the fireplace, the bookmarked books, the lavender drying up in the kitchen wall for tea, in the chipped mugs stored in the cupboards. It is the ghost of a house, but Phil has been living with one for the majority of his time on the server, so he doesn’t expect it to be that different.

He should do something, probably, but he is tired and weary, so he goes upstairs and lays down on Techno’s bed, curled around the glass that contains the few ashes of his once friend, someone who he considered his brother, his other half, and breathes in the scent of home, of fire and brimstone, of iron and tea, and tries to not cry.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like this, curled under the blankets and mourning, but it is long enough that he cannot feel the hunger clawing inside of him, nor his thirstiness. He was determined to stay more on bed, but then he heard a sound downstairs, the pitter patter of feet trying to pass silently through the creaky floor and he knew he cannot stay here.

It is the mere sound of someone else downstairs, but it is enough to make the embers inside of his chest burst into a raging fire, as he silently slips out and grabs the sword he left lying besides the bed. There’s someone inside of Techno’s house, and he remembers the chest almost empty, the valuables missing, and the fire grows more and more, as he sneaks downstairs. 

The figure is kneeled in the last floor, carefully touching the dried blood where the body once was, and Phil kicks him to the side, snarl on his face and wings bristled behind, as he points at the person looking at him. He barely recognizes who it is, until he stares into the too blue eyes, and the information weaves between his rage and makes him recognize the child in front of him.

Tommy looks like a mess, shirt torn up and dirty, the pants in not a better state, the hair matted and tangled, almost brown from how dirty it was. He stays pointing the sword for some time, before sheathing it again and leaving for upstairs, leaving the spluttering child behind.

He should probably talk, tell Tommy to get out, or ask him how he is; while they are distant, wilbur cared deeply for the kid, and Phil owed it to Wil, but he is tired, he is done and not up for conversation, so he simply goes upstairs towards the kitchen and grabs a loaf of bread, sitting on the nearby couch and nibbling at it half heartedly.

He ignores the other as he climbs the stairs and sits nearby, ignoring how the bread tastes like ashes and dirt on his mouth. He is only eating because he is sure if he doesn’t he could pass out, not remembering the last time he ate, yet the food tastes bland and horrible, either from his lack of hunger or something else, who knows.

“Hey, Philza, big man!” Tommy yells, voice snapping against the silence of the house like a whip “How are you doing man!”

He doesn’t answer, more focused on trying to choke down the piece of stale bread, which he soons abandons. Tommy laughs nervously at the silence, fidgeting more than usual, looking very out of place in the stifling atmosphere of the cottage.

“Come on man, don’t leave me hanging” More silence “I-Uh, Philza man, why the fuck is there blood on the bottom floor? Thought the Blade didn’t like dirtying his house”

The name hurts like a hot-fire brand on his skin, but Phil only blinks and looks up stoically to him. “What do you want, tommy?”

“I, man, can’t one ask shit without being questioned?! Come on, don’t be like that! You can’t be like that, you kicked me, you bitch!”

“... Why are you here” He says, not even asks, looking away “Go away Tommy”

“W—What?! Fuck you, I live here bitch! Who the hell are you for telling me to go away!! Where is Techno even, the bitch?!” Tommy blusters and splutters, trying to act aggressive, an act Phil can clearly see through. “Answer me, bitch! Where is Techno, anyways? Did he fuck off to another adventure or some shit—?”

“He’s dead” Phil interrupts, never one to mince his words, no matter the company.

“What?”

“He…” Phil stands up, and despite being smaller than Tommy in height, he still towers over the kid, who flinches back “Is. Dead.”

“B—But!? He’s the Blade!?! He doesn’t die! Who killed him!?” Tommy looks shocked, almost fearful, but Phil cannot find in himself to care.

He only throws his communicator at him and goes toward the window, looking outside and trying to ignore the creeping red on the background nearby the house. He can hear Tommy’s voice hitch as he reads the messages, and he knows when he gets to the final one, a small whimper of “Tubbo?” escaping him. Ah, that was the final one then? Phil mentally tucks that information away, and sighs deeply.

“Go away Tommy, I’m not in the mood”

“No, no wait! Wait! Why did this happen?! W—Did Techno do something? He must have, didn’t he? To get exe—executed right?!”

“What could have Techno done?” Phil’s tone is cold and harsh, hand tightening around the handle of the sword but Tommy must not notice, as he continues to talk and talk.

“Tubbo wouldn’t execute anyone just because! Techno must have done something! It—It must have been for blowing up L’manburg, that must be!”

“...So, for “blowing up” L’manburg, he deserved to die… three times…” 

Tommy must sense how bad the situation is getting, stammering and going back, trying to backpedal.

“No, no, I’m just saying that New L’manburg wouldn’t do this without a reas—”

“A reason?” Phil says, voice cold as the harsh wind outside and senses Tommy fall quiet, either out of fear or self preservation. “Like they had a reason to exile you? Like they had a reason to hunt down a man who has given up violent ways? Like they had a reason for destroying my house? Like those reasons?”

“No, you don’t understand—”

“That’s right. I don’t understand because I do not see a logical _reason_ for the murder of my _best friend._ I suggest you leave Tommy”

“But—!”

“Tommy” Phil warns, “It wasn’t an actual suggestion. **_Leave._ **”

He hears shuffling behind, a hesitance, the sound of his communicator deposited down and the sound of footsteps going downstairs, the front door opening and closing.

The house falls once again silent, and Phil wonders if it was for the best.

He sighs, shakily, and leans against the wall, wings pressed uncomfortable against it. Phil is tired, and he once again curses the day he joined this damned server. Nevertheless, he cannot simply do nothing. Techno was murdered just outside of his own house, and nothing in Phil will rest until he manages to find out _why_.

It feels like Wilbur all over again, and it hurts so so much, but there is nothing he can do, except power through and try to keep his head above the water. Phil is tired of swimming, but he cannot drown, not unless he manages to bring down the others with him. 

He stays a few hours inside, until the restlessness on his bones becomes too much and once again he goes outside, a shovel in hand to try clean the side of the house out of the blood. Phil has never been one to be queasy, to get nervous around blood or anything like it. But having the knowledge this is the blood of someone he considered his best friend, dare he say his younger brother, looking at blood has never been more unsettling.

He shovels the stained snow to the semi hidden lake, watching the snow melt in the water and the blood swirl around. It is mesmerizing in a way that feels deeply wrong, so he tries to not stare too much, even while he knows it is useless. His hands shake as he brings water buckets outside and cleans the bloody handprints, the familiar shape of a hooved hand making something inside of him wither and die each time he carefully washes it away. If his hands shake too much, he couldn’t tell if it's because of the cold or how broken he feels inside.

At one point it starts snowing again, and the snowflakes melt instantly against his skin, and if he cries, he doesn’t think anyone would notice, not really.

* * *

  
  


When everything is cleaned, as best as it can, and every piece that reminds him of the murder outside is burned, he stands alone in the too big house.

Despite cleaning, he can still see clearly where the blood was, where the body rested, where every single item was tainted, how every nice memory is now corrupted with the overlay of death and blood over it. It kills him inside, in a way unable to describe. It feels like heartbreak, like the end of everything, how finite, how real it feels now, how he can no longer deny the fact that Techno is dead, that Technoblade, his best friend, someone he considered family is fucking dead.

How is he meant to go forward? How is he meant to live, to continue on, when he can feel the shackles of grief burned into his heart, dragging it out, leaving him breathless at the mere thought of him. It is a dangerous combination, grief and him, a mix so volatil no one can be sure what the result will be. Last time he ended up almost comatose, forced to rely on Techno to go forward, when the memory of his son's blood on his hands became too much. 

But he no longer has Techno here to help, no, this damned server took him from Phil. This fucking server took everything Phil ever cherished close, twisted every good memory into a nightmare of it. And it makes him angry, a rage that burns deeply, settles into his bones and curls around his mind; a deep feeling that makes his hands twitch, that causes a frown to settle over his face and never leave.

It is both exhausting and exhilarating, something never felt before, and Phil can't help but lean into it, let it consume him entirely. 

He needs retribution, needs to make this server pay. He cares for them, sure, but he has taken too much from him, too much broken, that he knows he will not hold himself back if the opportunity for revenge arises. He sighs and turns towards where he needs the Nether Portal is.

First, he’ll need supplies.

The Nether is suffocating, as always, but he bears the burden nonetheless, letting the warm currents of air help him stay afloat over the lava ocean, as he sharpens his sword and gathers more and more skulls, the wither dust covering his whole clothes after a while. Countless skeletons fall under his blade, and his backpack gets too filled with the skulls soon, the enderchest practically brimming to overflow with them. It is tedious work, and he soon makes a farm for it, in a very far away fortress, never leaving to the overworld even once. 

He also gathers rods from blazes, gathers magma cream, everything he can think of; trading with the piglins for more gravel and potions, for anything that can help. His hands hurt from how much he grips his weapon, and he grows tired of only eating porkchop, but he won’t stop, until he feels he has enough.

Techno promised him the world, and Phil promises to destroy it if his friend is not here with him.

The overworld feels cold, when he comes back, through one new portal from obsidian traded with piglins; he appears just outside of a dark forest, and he can see some village in the distance. He makes a base there, a lone bed the only comfort he permits himself, wall from wall filled with overflowing chests. He still has emeralds, and trades for more and more maps, mansions falling under his blade, under his wings as he gathers everything he can think of.

Maybe it is over preparing, but Phil refuses to not have enough. He is determined to make them pay, and although he knows he could make do with his simple hands, he refuses to not make as much damage as he can.

It’s been a long time since he has prepared like this, when he has sharpened his claws, had trained his wings into doing the once forgotten flying formations and tricks he had once known, but he forces himself into it. It brings forth a now forgotten world, of Empires and Country, of projects never ending, and it makes the loneliness inside of him bitter all the more.

He marks the third week he has lived without Techno and spreads his wings, taking into the air, without care to the supposed rules that once shackled him down. Phil is tired of playing nice.

He flies and flies, soars through the skies above New L’manburg, watching with keen eyes the figures under him, similar to ants in a way, as they move through their daily days. He flies in circles above, until he finally manages to locate the person he needs, who is now carefully locking his door.

He waits until he sees him get out of the city, following behind in the skies, above the clouds to avoid anyone seeing him. When he feels secure enough, he dives down, onto the forest where his target rests. Phil dives, sharp claws at ready, adrenaline filling his body, making him feel alive as he hasn’t felt in a long time.

The impact almost takes his breath out of his chest, but the cracking sound and pained shout of Ranboo meeting the floor when he tackles him makes him regain it soon enough. He digs his claws in, ignoring the whimpers and the green and red blood staining his feet. 

“P—Phil?!” The prey shouts surprised, squirming and trying to escape, unsuccessfully.

“Stay still or I will kill you” He warns, monotone, ignoring how the other instantly freezes with a whimper “I’ll give you one opportunity. What did you mean, when you told me “they said they wouldn’t do it”? Answer quickly”

“W—What, Phil wait I don’t understand—”

Phil takes one of his legs and puts pressure on the kid’s throat, claws flexing dangerously around the neck.

“One opportunity Ranboo. What did you mean when you saw the communicator?”

“I—I can’t remember, Phil, I don’t understand!” Ranboo yelps as he feels the claws tighten “I—I don’t understand!”

The other hisses, frustration creeping upon his chest as he stares at the trembling teenager under him.

“You said “They wouldn’t do it” back in my house, when you saw the communicator” Phil watches Ranboo’s pupils shrunk “Who were _they?_ ”

“The—New L’manburg cabinet, they proposed, i, they proposed to hunt down the threats to L’manburg” Ranboo whimpered, his struggle dying down “I—I found out they wanted to go after Techno and made them promise me they wouldn’t do it”

“Why?”

“Be—Because Techno is your friend!” Ranboo stutters, hands half raised, looking strangely smaller “You are my friend, and Techno was yours, of course I would make them promise me they wouldn’t do it”

The words are sincere, bleeding honesty into the crushed grass underneath them. A snake of guilt wants to curl around his heart at these words, because they are the truth. Him and Ranboo are, were?, friends, strangely close despite how different they were. But Phil is, not old, but wise; he has lived through more than a lot of people on this server could ever amount to, and he has become resistant against the poison of regret, he had to, to survive.

He sighs, and wonders if it’s too late to go back, to give it up. But this server has taken too much of him, and he refuses to not take his retribution. He steps off Ranboo’s body, and lets the child catch his breath, throwing at the other a small roll of bangles for the sluggishly bleeding throat. The information was worthless, in truth, something he had easily guessed from the death messages, but he is restless, his rage an untamable beast that has now escaped from its chains and will not go back. 

He should find this horrible, find guilt crushing him inside at the sight of the trembling hands of the other, that despite the fact he was absolutely willing to kill Ranboo, he still considers him his friend.

“Wait, I can, I can help you” The enderman hybrid stops him before he goes away, one hand curled against his chest yet still staring at him. 

It unsettles Phil, in a way he cannot describe. It reminds him a little too much of his own dead ghosts yet he still finds himself asking “Why would you help me? It would be in your better interest if you ran away”

“Because you are my friend” Ranboo declares, not like this was a bold statement, not like this was a hidden secret, not like this was a big gesture. No, he simply said it like if it was a fact, a simple truth.

“Sit” He commands, plopping into the ground in front of the other “Tell me everything”

And Ranboo, trusting, scarred, afraid, and still stupidly loyal Ranboo, does it. He spills all their secrets, who was on in probably, what he had managed to find while Phil was away from the country. He tells of secret meetings, of hidden room, obsidian and water, cages, spoils of war and more. Weaves stories of secrets, of employers, of who watched, who stood by, who saw, and who could have helped. He tells Phil about how they got Technoblade, of Fundy drunkenly bragging about how foolish, how easily influenceable, how _trusting_ was of any words about Phil and how it led to his demise. 

And Phil stays sitting, hell in his eyes, as he absorbs the betrayal of people he once thought could get to be friends.

(If anyone were to see this, rage-fueled, violence induced Phil and logical, loyal Ranboo, they wouldn’t know it but would probably be staring at the beginning of a true friendship. Because Ranboo sees the grief, the barely hidden rage, and knows “This is a man driven by his emotions” and can still recognize “This is a man standing alone against the world. This is a man who needs a shoulder to lean on”)

(Here’s the truth no one knows about Philza and Technoblade. Once upon a time, in vast fields of snow, there was a piglin filled with rage and a man who could recognize the loneliness in the other.)

( Philza and Technoblade, Ranboo and Philza.)

  
  
( Some things never change, in the end).

  
  


* * *

  
  


Ranboo is an invaluable help in gathering information.

No one distrusts the amnesiac boy, who walks around the country as if he were another shadow slinking away. No one sees the leather bound book that steadily fills up with the secrets the city should keep inside. Phil can recognize a little of himself in the other, the kindness he presents, how easily he is dismissed despite everything.

Ranboo isn’t a nobody, as much as the government of New L’amburg likes to preach. The tales of the fast enderman hybrid that rose in ranks rapidly, how lethal he could be in combat when he proposed, how his name easily gained traction in Hypixel Arenas. It reminds him a lot of himself, and maybe that's what spurs him into letting Ranboo help him. He still tries to keep the kid at bay, but it is easy to get attached despite his precautions.

And maybe, it isn’t so bad. Ranboo is as alone as him, ignored by any friend he seemed to once have, sister turning him away, brother ignoring him. Ranboo is alone, a rock in the middle of the sea, a useless anchor in the raging ocean this corrupted country has become, and Phil wonders if the boy regrets coming here.

The country that called for freedom is dead, a barely standing husk of itself the only remains of the once proud L’manburg. It is easy to see the cracks of the system, the citizens with hunched backs as they walk, the ever increasing rules the governments create (“For protection” They dare claim, their suits stained with the blood of the sacred). He can see why Techno was so inclined towards anarchism, he thinks distantly, watching the scheming cabinet, the kid he used to know with a pressed suit and growing horns framing his head. 

They create a new base nearby, the cottage in the tundra too painful to stay in when he knows the killers of the owners walk free and happy through the server. The base is close to the country, hidden deep in the neighbouring mountains, the entrance hidden in the middle of the sharp cliff, where only someone with a good throwing hand or with wings could even dare imagine trying to find it.

It is not too big, most of the rooms carved deep in the heart of the mountain, where no sun will ever touch the inside. He puts chests upon chests against the wall, has rows of brewing stands at the ready and creates uncountable potions, the only thing managing to drag him away from his tasks is Ranboo, the teenager dropping once a day to slowly coax him towards the improvised kitchen, and put a warmth cup of tea between his hands to try to ground him into reality.

His mind is absent, most of the days, as he grinds and grinds for anything he can dare to hope, the enchanted books stacking high against the floor, chest filled with potions and golden carrots, stacks upons stacks of golden apples, gold carefully extracted from the deeps of the nether. It is easy to lose himself into the repetitive movements, the wound too fresh to even dare to think about it, a player shaped hole in his heart that constantly pulls each time he turns, a joke, a remark on his lips that die in a silent whisper when noticing the lack of a piglin around him.

Grief is heavy, a shackle resting upon his neck, threatening to pull him down. Wilbur’s grief was a different demon, was his heart being crushed, was being forced to kill his son and then smile to his ghost, Wilbur’s death was bad, because he was the one to kill him, he was the one to plunge that shiny diamond sword deep into his son’s gut and hold him as he finally smiled and let go. 

Wilbur’s grief was being apathetic to everything, Wilbur’s grief was losing himself to his sadness, forgetting to talk, to eat, wandering around like a corpse as his best friend tried to keep him tethered to life. He barely managed to get out of it, bribed with talks of resurrection, with the person he trusted the most in the world besides him, helping him stay above the rising water of his feelings.

Techno’s death is different.

Both hurt the same, deep into his chest, crushing his heart and letting his grief out for everyone to see. But there is no friend now to keep him in check, to prop him to stay living, because his friend was murdered in a mockery of justice. There is no force now to remind him to stay calm, no person that can now make him stop his rage-fueled adventure. No, there’s only an amnesiac teenager, who understands he needs this and is only here to try to keep him conscious and help him kill this damned server.

“Which target will we attack first?” Ranboo asks, one day, as he watches Phil tiredly eat some stale soup.

“Hm?” Phil questions, setting down his spoon and looking at Ranboo, who was sitting directly in front of him on the table.

“Where will we attack first?” He repeats, one hand tapping distractedly against the wood “What are our plans?”

“New L’manburg and then, i don’t know,” Phil shrugs, because despite how much he wants his revenge he hasn’t thought this much about “I don’t have a plan”

“Good” Ranboo nods, taking a book out of his suit, from some pocket in the inside part of the blazer “Because I have some”

The avina blinks, and carefully pushes his soup to the side, looking at the drawn maps, the bullet points, the detailed weaknesses of everyone there. It is impressive, and he peers at the smug-looking teenager.

“Wha—When did you make this?” He questions, the implied _why_ getting across as the enderman hybrid shrugs.

“Well… We need all of our bases covered, don’t we?” The smile could almost be intimidated, and Phil remembers conversations.

_People_ , Ranboo had snarled, upset after meeting with some friends one day, _I chose people. Not sides._

_I’ve heard of him,_ Techno has said when sharing the news, _some friends in Hypixel speak highly of him. Very good at improvising apparently. Should look out for him, could be a danger._

_You are my friend,_ Ranboo had said, simply, still hurt from when Phil’s claws had dug too much in.

Never fear the violent one, Phil thinks to himself, the worst ones are the kind ones.

“We do” Is all Phil says instead.

* * *

  
  
  


It goes like this.

The morning L’manburg is destined to die, Phil wakes up early, and shuffles out of the bed, multiples feathers askew from sleeping. The sun outside is bright, and the morning is cold. On any different day, in any different timeline, Phil would laugh and sit outside to bathe in the sun, would call someone and spend the day with friends, would check on Wilbur and Techno, would dress on his favorite haori and spend the morning outside.

In this timeline, Phil sits with a tight face in the kitchen, watches the tea go cold and wonders where it all went wrong. In this timeline, he puts on the polished netherite armour, checks the enchantments on his axe and sword, picks stacks of dynamite and wither skulls to place on his ender chest, and waits.

In another timeline, he would be besides his best friend and destroy the country. In this one, he flies down to the ground and goes meet up with Dream.

“Apparently” Ranboo had said, a few days back, appearing in the middle of the basic living room their base had “Tubbo has been hiding Tommy in New L’manburg and lifted the exile”

“Oh?” He had commented, not seeing how this connected to them.

“Apparently” Ranboo continued, smiling “The community house was blown up by Tommy. Apparently, Dream will destroy New L’manburg tomorrow”

“...”

“Phil” Ranboo had said, looking like a man on a mission “Phil, I think we need to ally with him. This is our opportunity to strike”

And they had done that, Phil coming to the Admin in the middle of the night, Ranboo a silent company behind him, as the two struck a deal.

“Never saw you as one to hate L’manburgh” Dream had said, from behind the blank mask, and Phil smiled, a tight smile, and enjoyed the small flinch the other gave.

“Sometimes you need to put ghosts to rest” He comments and leaves, Ranboo staring at Dream for a few seconds before following, the enderman hybrid making preparations to move all of his pets and the rest of his important things out of the country while Phil went to check over their resources one last time.

The admin is standing a little before the road that leads to the country, fitted in shiny armour, enchanted apples between his hands as he nods at Phil. They may be allies right now, but Phil knows Dream doesn’t trust him, clear from how close his hand is to his sword. That’s fine, his objective today isn’t Dream, for now.

“You know, flying is against the rules” Dream comments idly, as if commenting on the weather, as Phil stretches his various wings.

“Well, do you want the advantage or not?” Phil retorts, taking a potion out of his pocket and downing it on one go, grimacing at the weird taste of slow falling on his mouth. 

Dream shrugged “Sure, in the end, it’s my server. Though, I don’t see how 2 wings will help you, it will rain later and I’m sure you will be slower than anyone with a trident”

Phil threw his head back and barked a laugh, letting his cape fall and flexing his multiple wings, admiring how Dream took a single step back.

“Even with only two wings, they couldn’t dare to even catch me” 

With a strong flap of his upper wings, he launched into the air, soon soaring over the clouds, watching with keen eyes the country under him. He watched Dream send him a message, sending a check back, as he watched the admin slowly build up and start creating an obsidian grid over the city.

He watched people slowly trickle out of their houses, and Phil dived down, standing in front of Ranboo, who was signalling at him from the top of his house roof. He kicked open the ender chest deposited down, and shoved into the other's arm 3 stacks of wither skulls, the kid giving a startled laugh as he nodded at his question of having soul sand.

“Farm?” He asked, breathless, as he received half of the potions Phil had on him, taking his sword out of its sheath.

“You know it mate” Phil breathed in “You pick up the stragglers, I’ll take care of the main duo”

Ranboo nodded and scampered off, surprisingly agile as he weaved between the panicked citizens, the only sign of not being stopped by the roaring of Withers coming to life in the distance. Phil jumped into the air, ignoring the screams and yells, and searched for a mop of blond hair in the crow, grinning triumphantly as he found Tommy, and Tubbo, the two signaling between them at the grid above.

He pulled back his bow and shot, cursing as Tommy pushed Tubbo back, the arrow embedding itself in front of the teenagers.

He dived down, swapping bow for sword, and threw himself against Tommy, the kid yelling as he was pushed abruptly out of the way. With a sharp boost of his wings, Phil turned and ducked under the swing of Tubbo’s sword, parrying it back. The president looked unhinged, wild eyes as he desperately tried to stab back, the suit stained in soot and dirt, the president of nothing in the end, as it always was predicted to.

Tubbo’s advantage is that he is young, agile, and fast; but Phil hasn’t managed to stay alive this long without learning how to counter this. He throws a wing above, and grins at the breathless gasp the other gives when the appendage wacks him across the temple, falling to the ground hard. His smile is sharp, almost cutting against the raining skies of above as he towers above the teenager. 

“Tubbo” He says, relishing in the rapidly paling skin of the other. “What a… surprise to see you again”

“Phil I don’t understand, why, why are you betraying us?!” He cries at the kick he gets to his chest, the sharp ends of the claws tearing the suit as he is kicked. “You live here!”

“I don’t Mr President, in case you haven’t noticed” Phil bites back, tense and angry “I stopped living here since my best friend was murdered by those in power”

“Wh—What?! Is this about Technoblade?!” Rain has started pouring down, as the tnt falls and sizzles into the ground, a requiem of destruction appropriate for how Phil feels inside.

There was something in that tone. Is this about technoblade? He said, despective, as if it wouldn’t make sense for someone to be angry about Techno, as if there wasn’t any reason to be angry that someone was unlawfully murdered. 

Is this about Technoblade? The president of a dead country had dared to ask, as if it was pointless, as if it was worthless.

Of course it was about Techno, it always was.

Technoblade, the blood god. Philza, the Angel of Death. Who was he, to dare to presume? Who was Tubbo, to act this way to him? To stand in a hole created out of their mistakes and dare to point fingers to something else?

There must have been something in his expression, as he stood tall around the destruction, sword in hand, that made Tubbo comprehend he wasn’t joking around.

“Look around you! Look at what you are doing! It isn’t worth it!” Tubbo claimed, desperate, as he started backing away from his sword.

“It is, Tubbo. Techno was my best friend, my other half, but I guess you wouldn’t know about it since you were willing to exile your best friend” Maybe it is a little petty, but never let it be said that Philza cannot be petty.

“That—That was different!”

“Sure” Phil said, hitching his sword higher “It was different”

“I don’t understand why you are so upset about Techno!” Tubbo yelped, side stepping the axe that almost gutted him “Was he, was he your soldier? Your right hand man? Is that what this is about, you are sore for losing your favorite army?”

Phil snarled, throwing his sword away and throwing himself at the other, the two rolling through the mud as Phil hissed and growled, the sharp claws of his hands trying to desperately ruin any skin they touched.

“Shut up!” Phil roared, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the tears gathering in his eyes “Don’t you dare talk about Techno that way! You fucking little bitch, take it back!”

“Philza you simply are—Eep!” Tubbo squeaked as Phil straight up bited him, using the opportunity to sink his claws into the teenager’s shoulders and shoving his knee into the kid’s stomach.

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking dare!” Phil bited back, eyes wild and full of fury.

_(In one world, it is Techno screaming at Tommy about how he is a person. In this world, it’s Phil screaming at the murderers of his best friend as he realizes no one ever saw Techno as a living being)_

Someone kicked him from behind, shoving with enough force he was torn away from Tubbo, causing him to twist and bring a wing up to protect himself from another kick. He hissed, watching Tommy stand protectively in front of the other, shield in hand and fury in his eyes.

“Leave Tubbo alone!”

“Tommy,” he warned “move away. I am not here to fight you, but I will if you try to intervene”

The teenager shook his head furiously, yelping as he put up the shield and tried to not stumble back at the hard swipe Phil gave against it. They exchanged blows for a while, as Tubbo recomposed himself and joined the fray, the two teenagers desperately trying to hold off the blond. The rain was hard on their eyes, soaking them and leaving the floor slippery, as they fought and tried to avoid the raining explosives.

In the other side of the country, Ranboo hissed, ducking from the wild swing of Sapnap’s sword and placing the last wither skull onto the soul sand, smiling victoriously at the new wither that was spawning in and throwing an ender pearl, leaving Sapnap’s anguished yells behind as he ran and started to build another wither. 

No one was focused on Dream, as planned, and he continued on to build more distractions, ignoring the yells of the people below.

_No trial, executed like the pig he was!_ Fundy had bousted, the fox hybrid casually spouting how he had “deserved it” for being an aggressive mob. _He was a mob at the end of the day, and died like one!_

Ranboo had looked at someone he once considered his friend, looked at his own ender hands and wondered if the roles were reversed would have Fundy said the same as him. 

There is no love lost between New L’manburg and Ranboo, never was to begin with if being honest. He had always proclaimed he was for the people first, nation last, so he wonders why they act so surprised. Phil was his friend, the only one who actually cared when he had difficulty moving through the water, the only one who offered solutions for his mob related problems, the only one who was left behind when everyone else started focusing on the politics, on the what if, leaving him behind.

He owes it—No, scratch that. Phil is his friend, it is no matter of owing someone something, it is a matter of standing alongside the one who didn’t abandon him, who cared, and helped. He stands over the man-made crater and wonders if this fate would have changed if he hadn’t helped. Shrugging, he joins back into the fray, weaving between countless attackers and raining tnt, putting as many withers as possible, while trying to not get stabbed too badly.

He’s in the middle of finishing one when he gets a sharp kick between the ribs, skidding off the roof and falling onto the floor, in the middle of a puddle. He gasps, as the watter slips a little inside of his armour but rolls to the side, evading the falling shape that is Quackity.

He throws himself back and gets up, sword held loosely between his hands as he towers above the other. Ranboo is tall, barely smaller than an enderman, and he uses it to his advantage, pressing towards Quackity, crowing him against the wall of the house with precise swipes and slashes. The mexican is good, but his netherite axe is unenchanted, blade dully gleaming against the sky as Ranboo slams into the other with his shield, hoping to at least incapacitate him enough to leave.

His mission is to distract, not to fight, and he curses Quackity for being so stubborn, the other continuing to throw desperate slashes in hope of hitting. After a few more minutes of attacking, Ranboo can clearly see this won’t end well, and slams his shoulder against the other’s body, Quackity hitting the wall with a rough sound. Not caring enough to even check if Quackity is out of the fight, he turns and runs away.

Of course, it fails. Quackity literally tackles him, his axe and sword falling away and kicked into the nearby hole made by the tnt. The adult looks smug, knee pressing against his throat as Ranboo tries to breathe.

“I knew it! I knew you would betray us, you fucking little bitch” The shapeshifter crows, pressing more the knee when Ranboo tries to throw him off “Motherfucker, I knew you weren’t any good news. Should have thrown you out the second we saw you fraternizing with Phil, you both traitorous bitches”

Ranboo snarls and snaps his jaw against the hand, relishing in the pained yell the other gives, before keening in pain when he feels the knee lift up only to kick him sharply into the stomach.

“Feral piece of shit” Quackity scowls, “You fucked up enderman failure, I knew you were only bad news”

Maybe it is weeks of hearing the same shit, maybe it is being pressed into the puddle of water under him, maybe it's the tnt, the soul sand and wither skulls taunting him in his inventory. Maybe it simply was destined to occur, like a rubber band snapping after being stretched out too thin. 

But Ranboo grabs the pickaxe he has on his belt, with fumbling hands, and with the familiar weight in his hands he swings, the sharp end of his pick hooking on Quackity’s jaws and throwing him off him. The blood is warm as it splatters against his skin, and he snarls, a reverberating sound not too dissimilar to the snarl of an angry enderman.

Ranboo has risen above the writhing masses of the Arenas, bloody pickaxe in hand as he grasps towards recognition. Ranboo has faced the ender dragon, looked into her eyes and swung his pick down. Ranboo has risen above anonymity, above death, above worthless. 

Ranboo advances towards Quackity and swings the tool down, the crunch of bone familiar in his ears, until the body under him twitches and disappears in a puff of smoke. He grabs a flint and steel and sets the items on fire, breathing in the smoke, the blood in the air, the smell of gunpowder, of screams and death.

Ranboo feels as if he is back home.

He stands tall above the faceless crowd beneath him, as if scared chickens, the people running around as the Withers hunts them down. He does not have his sword nor axe in hand, but he has a pickaxe, and Ranboo has made do before with even less

* * *

  
  
  


Phil throws himself back, avoiding the slash of Punz’s sword, as his communicator lights up.

He presses his claw against the earpiece delicately, twirling out of the range of Punz, as if he were dancing again. Ranboo’s voice soon appears, the sound soft, with an edge that Phil is not used to listening to.

“I think we have finished this phase, Phil” Ranboo says, the distant sound of netherite against netherite traversing through the communicator “What do you think?”

He looks over the small crowd he is fighting. Their faces are tired, shoulders sagged and hands tremble, looking like lost people, like the desperate sailor who knows that they will not come back home. They look like the drowning man, who knows his fate, like the dying victim, who knows she will not be avenged.

“Yeah” he responds absentmindedly “I think we have this phase finished”

“Regroup and then to the second part?” Ranboo asks, voice tilting and soft, the voice of someone who knows this is a winned battle. It reminds him somewhat of Techno so much that he stands there, breathless, trying to survive the heartbreak that momentarily threatens to swallow him whole. “Phil?”

His voice takes him out of his momentary trance and Phil extends his wings, taking a jump and flying away, starting to lure in the following him.

“Sure mate” He says, voice almost lost to the rain “Let’s do this”

Ranboo nods from where he is, and starts climbing the obsidian grid, letting enough people see him above. He finds Dream laughing, standing at the edge of the grid, looking like someone entirely different to what Ranboo had become used to. 

_In New L’manburg one can be a new man,_ Tommy’s voice whispers in his ears as he remembers his first day on the server, and wonders at how human the other seems, laughing, as ashes and soot gather around the edges of his mask, his hands stained with redstone. He stands besides the other and looks over the grid, as if appreciating the work the other had done.

“Everything is set up?” He asks, almost disinterested, as Dream wheezes and nods, standing cockily at the edge of the platform, armour wholly intact.

“Yeah! What was left over I set it up there” he cocks his head to the side, where one grid of the obsidian is slightly taller than the others.

Ranboo nods, and ducks, at the sound of an arrow whistling closer. Dream takes off his sword and deflects it, cursing as he watches the mob of people climbing up the platform.

“Did you set up your spawn nearby?” Ranboo asks, brandishing his pickaxe and throwing off the first person that had managed to get close.

“Why?” Dream asks, taking a trident and stabbing Badboyhalo.

“Because—” Ranboo pauses, ducking under Karl’s clumsy swipe and throwing himself against the other, making him trip and fall down onto the craters beneath. “Because, you are kind of our powerhouse right now”

“You think I’ll die?”

“No, it's simply I don’t want to—Urgh!—I don’t want to end up overwhelmed by everyone when you eventually die” Ranboo hisses out, stumbling back to avoid another slash at his chest.

“I would worry more about you” Dream scoffed, throwing an ender pearl to teleport into the middle of the mob.

Ranboo takes a breath, trying to not feel disappointed, and taps at his earpiece.

“Did you hear?” He questions quietly, jumping down towards the craters and falling onto water, his netherite boots protecting him from the worst of the damage.

“Yeah” comes Phil quiet voice from the communicator “Guess we’ll stick to plan B”

Ranboo sighed, and mourned the fact that he could not kick Dream off the grid nor kill him. 

“Ye—Yes, i think that will work” He whispers, weaving between the debris “Where are you?”

“Up, around… the first quadrant of the grid” Phil says, and Ranboo groans, squinting his eyes as he tries to find a spot moving through the skies.

“Dream is like, uhm, around the beginning of the grid? Is where the small mob, where Sapnap and the others are” He stumbles, jumping to avoid the tnt-made holes in the ground.

“Alright. Did you check up with Sam?” 

“Oh, i knew i was forgetting something” Ranboo said, quickly taking out his communicator and sending a quick message, grinning triumphantly “Yeah, he—he’s at the ready”

“Perfect, thanks mate” Phil said, the sound of wind almost deafening him.

“See you there,” Ranboo says, cutting the call.

Phil sighs, and moves his high wingset, the four upper wings shifting so he can softly turn to circle above where Dream is. He can spot the bright green in the middle of the crowd, and he hums, putting the sword back onto his belt and making sure the sharp netherite tips over his claws aren't loose. It was a bitch to enchant them properly, and they are a very good add on for causing extra damage with his claws on his hands.

He circles above, lazy and slow figures, as he tries to spy for the best opportunity. As soon as he notices he sends a message to Ranboo to throw the potion, and dives down. It is exhilarating, the sound of wind rushing against his face as he tucks his wings close and lets gravity pull him down. He squints his eyes, blinking rapidly to let his second eyelid protect the eyes, trying to not feel disoriented. Phil sees Dream jump back, still focused on the crowd around him and he smiles.

He opens his wings just as he sinks his lower claws onto the other’s shoulder, deep and tearing through the clothes to sink into the skin, and then uses his momentum to try to gain back the altitude. He ignores the struggling body as he moves his wings, soon rising above the clouds. He squawks, fumbling a little when Dream tries to stab him, and shakes him a lot, ignoring how ridicule he must look as he holds his wings awkwardly high, as he shakes and throws Dream around. 

The potion of weakness soon gets into effect, as he sees how visibly the other slumps and groans, the sword falling off his grasp. He doesn’t know how he does it, but manages to maneuver to hold the other with only one leg, watching carefully and using the sharp claws to rip the utility belt holding all of his weapons. 

Satisfied, Phil lurches and throws Dream up, grabbing him from the leg and letting him dangle upside down. He shakes him for good measure, letting the apples and potions fall through the skies and disappearing through the clouds.

“P—Philza?” Dream asks, weakly and with apparent vertigo, as Phil flies away, claws securing his grip on his prey “W—What are you doing?! We are allies! Let me go!”

He lets Dream try to squirm, ignoring the kicks he receives against his leg. When he doesn’t see Dream stop he sighs and stops, holding himself still in the air as his wings flap, leaning down and roughly grabbing the boots of the other, practically tearing away the netherite boots and throwing them off, watching them sink through the skies with disinterest.

“Now stop squirming or I will let you fall”

“Wh—Wha—?!”

“No Feather Falling _will_ kill you” Phil assured, a sharp smile on his face, as he continued on, slowly descending through the clouds, drifting down slowly as Dream hanged in the air.

“I, I don’t understand? Why would you do this?” Dream says, almost surprised, as if not used to being bested.

Phil lets the silence hang for a few minutes, watching from the corner of his eye Dream slowly relax and turn around, before deciding to answer.

“Did you know” He said, nonchalantly “That drunk people talk a lot?”

He watched Dream, seeing how he stayed super still, as if afraid to move, the mask staring straight at him.

“Fundy and Quackity had… Curious information, you know?” Phil muses, grinning sharply, letting his claws sink deeper into the other and enjoying the slight flinch of discomfort “Apparently, someone told them how to find Technoblade”

“...Phi—”

“Apparently” Phil continued, more forceful “Someone told them how to get the great Technoblade to yield”

He could remember vividly Ranboo’s expression, as he passed him his notebook where he was writing down the information, an underlined phrase the main focus.

“Apparently…” He turned his head and looked at Dream, noticing how he tensed almost imperceptibly “Apparently, someone knew a little too much and thought he didn’t have enough control over an unruly weapon”

“It’s not my fault. He wasn’t supposed to die” Dream said, almost hesitating, as if the Admin was just now truly realizing how much danger he was.

“He wasn’t supposed to die” Phil conceded, and slowly tucks his wings in as he saw the prison appear in the horizon “ But he did anyways”

Phil dives down, but it is silent.

He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse.

* * *

  
  
  


Ranboo and Phil stand over the crowd, watching the defeated faces of people they once thought could trust.

They look tired, defeated, and Tommy and Tubbo stumble forward, holding each other up, covered in scratches and wounds from his fight against Phil and the Withers. Even now, after hours have passed and there is a hole where New L’manburg once stood, they can hear in the distance the sound of the boss mobs destroying everything.

It had stopped raining half an hour ago, and Ranboo watches with disinterest the puddles in the floor, the mud that stains his boots and Phil’s cape. He watches the other two teenagers, and something like mourning covers his chest as he gazes at them. They refuse to look at him (the screams calling him traitor still ring in his ears), and he sighs, simply standing tall behind Phil. Not as a deterrent to the others, but as a company to the blond, whose eyes flick towards him once and nod, almost gratefully.

“Wha—What do you want Philza” Tubbo asks from below, too tired for a teenager his age. “Do you want the Discs? For me to die? What do you want?”

The avian sighs, and shakes his wings, letting them settle behind his back, the lower parts stained with blood and mud.

“I only want New L’manburg gone” He says, but he hopes the meaning gets across.

_I want you all gone, I want my son back, I want my friend back, I want it all gone._

“Why?” Tommy dares to ask, standing tall against Tubbo, one hand pressing against the deep slash Phil had given him some hours before.

There’s a million answers for it, all of them would expose too much, an injury too raw to ever dare to touch. He pauses, as if trying to think of what to say, when Ranboo speaks up from behind him.

“That country died a long time ago, it is time to let it rest… What good has it brought you since it was remade?”

Tommy scowled but stayed silent, the crowd behind them murmuring low but staying silent. Quackity is in the middle of it, staring at Ranboo with something both akin to fear and hatred, a fresh scar running from above his eyebrow down to his jaw.

“There wasn’t any need for countries” Phil takes over, and stares at both Eret and the trio in supposedly power of the weird man-made country besides the hole. “Don’t make anymore of it and we will be fine”

“W—What?!” Someone exclaims in the crowd, and they all start mumbling, either resentful or curious, Phil is too tired to decipher.

“I’ll give you until past tomorrow for any remaining country to disband” Phil pauses, and flexes his claws, letting the crowd’s eyes zero on the sharp ends stained with blood. “Alright?”

He watches them pointedly for one, two, three minutes, letting them fidget nervously in place before turning away. 

“Come on, Ranboo” He offers, and launches into the air, wrapping his hands around the kid’s chest and lifting him into the air, careful to not let his claws hurt him.

The fly back home is surprisingly short, or maybe Phil simply zones out too much, but soon they are getting back to their base, and he carefully deposits Ranboo down.

His hands are jittery, as he touches the floor and tries to take off his armour, the smell of gunpowder almost overpowering. He doesn’t really care, letting the armor pieces fall into the ground, as he stumbles towards the kitchen, deciding against sitting down and simply pacing around.

Ranboo is a little more careful, putting his armour on the stands nearby, and also picking up Philza’s. The enderman hybrid detours into the nearby bathroom, and comes back with the two first aid kits, passing one to the other before sitting down on the couch to take care of his injuries.

They work in silence, as they bangade what cannot be healed with potions.

Philza has gotten his revenge but he doesn’t think he is satisfied.

(He doesn’t think he will ever be)

* * *

  
  
  


It’s been about two weeks since Doomsday, as the server likes to call it.

Phil sighs, shakily, as he sits at the edge of the cliff and looks towards the ruins where New L’manburg rests. It’s been 2 hectic weeks, between threatening Quackity, Sapnap and Karl to disband El Rapids, checking in with Wilbur (who had moved not too long ago into Techno’s cabin, the forgetful ghost always waiting there for Phil to come back), and generally trying to live past the guilt that now sits heavy on his chest everyday.

He doesn’t regret destroying New L’manburg, not truly, but even after doing it his grief stis heavy and hot on his chest, like a rock weighing him down. It feels as if it was for nothing, even though the server is more peaceful, even though he can finally see the cracks between the fundations finally start to recover. He breathes in, and out, and tries to not let the tears burning against his eyes fall down.

Because it hurts, it truly hurts. Because there is nothing now to distract him from the fact that Techno is dead, that his best friend, the person he trusted with his life, someone he considered family, is fucking dead and there is nothing he can do about it. What else is there to do? He destroyed the country that caused this, 2 out of the three responsible died during the battle at least once, the one who managed to convince them, the mastermind behind everything is jailed, to never see the sun.

He looks at his hands, sharp claws that no longer have use, and wonders if there is anything for him now? There is Ghostbur, sure but… That's a ghost, that's not actually his son. And will it ever be? He wonders, bitterly, because his son was happy, was carefree, but also easily held grudges, and tended towards killing most of his pets and had the same chaotic streak he had. And the ghost in that house in the middle of the tundra is anything, but his son.

Angel of Death, that's his nickname, granted between laughs in an old server, where the arctic was his home and not a bitter reminder of what he lost. Angel of Death, and it seems fitting, when all he ever loved is _dead,_ gone and slipped between his hands to never be seen again. Winning was hard, but living with these feelings is harder.

He hears footsteps nearby, but doesn’t move, watching from the corner of his eye Ranboo come into view, and sit besides him, his long legs dangling over the cliff and kicking softly at the air. There is a sense of loss yet, tranquility, in the air between them, despite the unsaid messages hanging in it.

They stay in silence, for a good while, simply watching the horizon, the sinking sun, the tranquility that feels fake to a man who has lived through more wars than peace. He opens his mouth, and pauses, words stuck in his throat. There’s a million things to say, a million things he wants to tell, but they get tangled in his throat, withering away with a sigh. 

“I don’t know if I'll ever trust you as much as him” Philza ends up saying, instead of what he wanted to say, but the meaning is clear. 

_I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to love you as much as him._

“That's fine” Ranboo says, and simply sits besides the other, watching the ruins of the server and thinking of what tea could they have back home “As long as you let me stay, that will be enough for me”

And Phil nods, and watches the horizon. Because nothing is fine, Techno is still dead, the server is ruined, and nobody will ever trust him again but it doesn’t matter because Techno will stay dead, as dead as he was when he died on his arms, and as dead as his ashes are. But Ranboo is sitting besides him, a solid weight against the ever encompassing grief inside his chest, and maybe, just maybe, this will be okay.

Philza is a survivor, he will manage, he dares to hope.

He will survive.

(It’s all he ever seems to know this days)

“What will you do now?” Ranboo asks, letting the question hang in the air.

“I—I think” He sighs, the words are heavy but he pushes them out “I think I don’t know”

“There is Ghostbur,” Ranboo points out, and Phil nods, almost apathetic. 

“I know it’s simply…” He pauses, but Ranboo nods all the same, as if understanding what he so desperately wants to convey.

“Yeah, but I think we can make it work” Phil tilts his head and the enderman hybrid smiles, taking out of his pocket a map, “Have you heard of totems of undying?”

“Can—Can’t say I have” He takes the map carefully, and traces the small mansion in the middle of it with one claw “I—It works?”

He wants to ask, how did he find out, how did he know, why, why is he doing it, but it all dies at the small smile Ranboo gives him.

“I think, Phil” The sun is setting but Ranboo’s smile is enough to light up the whole world “I think you deserve this”

Philza doesn’t answer, but there is no need to, he thinks. He pockets the map into his haori and nods, and turns back to the horizon, breathing deeply.

The night finally covers the sky, and Phil can finally see the stars again.

* * *

  
  


Phil finishes packing everything up and sighs.

The house looks bare now, most of the important things having been shoved into boxes. He considers for a few minutes destroying the house, simply tearing it down, but the mere mental image of trying to do it is enough to make him cringe away from it. Instead he breathes deeply and re-checks the house to see he has taken everything of value away.

The portraits are now on the boxes, and the walls look bare without them. The bed is left with only the bare sheets, the handmade quilt folded and now resting back at his base, in the living room. The mobs in the basement have also been moved, and he stares for a few seconds at the empty cages. Hurbert and Moon are on his base, both having their own rooms, completely sealed away so nothing can get in. Carl, and the rest of the horses, have been released mostly, with a few having been adopted by others of the server. He knows Percy and Andrew live with Skeppy and Bad, but he doesn’t have a lot of ideas where the rest is.

He continues his tour, pausing momentarily in certain rooms as memories come back to him. It is… Difficult, to imagine he won’t ever see this place again, won’t hear Techno’s laughter, nor see him bickering in fictional arguments with Edward, or taking care of Carl or anything like it. It hurts, deeply, but the pain has mellowed out these last months, so he simply breathes and moves on.

That's all he can do, in the end. Move on. Because he cannot stay here, stuck in the past, in the grief. He remembers Ranboo’s pained expression, how his son, now alive and well, waits for him back home. He has to move on, at least, for them. He promised them, late at night, as Wilbur stormed off to his room, and he was left behind in the living room, Ranboo having to painstakingly explain how he was, in simple words, withering away because of his grief.

He cannot do that to them, not after they have stayed despite everything. He will move on, for them, because in the end, Phil has always done that for the people he loves. Move on, and hope to survive.

He gets back to the entrance and picks up the box filled with the last things, gets out and carefully closes the wooden door. It feels like the end of an era, try as he might, and he turns away, before tears start falling from his eyes.

He avoids the side of the house ardently, the bloody walls still stuck in his retina, the image haunting him in his nightmares, and starts the trek back to the nether portal. The snow is deep, almost mid-leg deep and Phil scowls at the sensation of snow entering his hiking boots. It will be a bitch to dry them later, but he continues on, not trusting the weather to try to fly back.

The Nether is oppressive, the heat almost smothering him, and he huffs, disgusted, turning towards the path when his communicator pings. He stops, curious, and puts the box down, taking the small device out and reading the messages.

_Messages WilburSoot and Ph1lza_

**_WilburSoot:_** _Where r u?_

 **_WilburSoot:_ ** _Fäther ple ase_

 **_WilburSoot:_ ** _Ranboo has been in a staring contest with Toby all this time and im starting to get_

 **_WilburSoot:_ ** _Scared for myself_

**_Ph1lza:_ ** _The turtle??????_

 **_WilburSoot:_ ** _yes_

 **_WilburSoot:_ ** _That's the only fucking Toby we know_

 **_WilburSoot:_ ** _That ranboo likes and you let into the house_

 **_Ph1lza:_ ** _jfc_

 **_Ph1lza:_ ** _I’m @ portal_

 **_Ph1lza:_ ** _ill get back like in,,,_

 **_Ph1lza:_ ** _3 mins? More or less_

 **_WilburSoot:_ ** _please hurry_

 **_WilburSoot:_ ** _Ranboob has started to now stare at me_

Phil huffs, amused, and shakes his head, putting the communicator back into his pocket.

He leans down to pick up the box again but stops, when a shiny glint between the netherrack catches his attention. He doesn’t remember gold being here, so he cautiously digs around the dust gathered there, until he manages to grab something small and hard.

It’s a communicator, dusty and with a screen cracked, but a communicator all the same. He tilts his head, confused, and examines it. Who could have left his comm behind? Not a lot of people pass through this portal, and the only ones that come to mind he has seen them with their comns.

He presses the power button, and waits for the screen to load, curious, box forgotten by his feet. He opens the menu, to check who it belongs to, and freezes.

  
  
  


**_Welcome back:_ ** _Technoblade_

**_You have:_ ** _+99 New Private Messages_

 **_You Have:_ ** _+99 Important Messages from Prioritized Friends_

  
  
  
  


He blinks, confused, and blinks again, in hopes of the screen changing or anything. Yet it still stays the same as before, and hopes this is all a misunderstanding. It feels as if the floor has fallen under his feet, and he is wildly freefalling through the skies. He stumbles and falls to the floor, distantly registering the dull pain of accidentally sitting on top of one of his wings.

He clearly remembers sending Techno off with his communicator. This… This can’t be possible. It couldn’t be, it simply couldn’t. He would wake up, right? This was all a nightmare, he would wake up soon and simply get off bed and Wilbur would be waiting for him in the kitchen and then they would talk and laugh and Ranboo would join them midday and hang around and he would not have techno’s fucking communicator because the comm had burned _alongside the body._

He stays there, sitting, waiting to wake up, but everything stays the same. Everything stays the same, and Phil watches his hand tremble because he never did account for this, huh? He buries his head between his hands and laughs, or maybe cries, because at this point it feels too difficult to discover which is which.

He burned Techno’s body with the comm, so there is only one reason for it to be here, almost buried under the dust of the netherrack. And he doesn’t know if he is strong enough to survive that theory, or even dare imagining it.

He looks around, and wonders how cursed must he be to still be alive.

**Author's Note:**

> *slowly erases the sign that showed how many days since i've started a new series/fic, and puts a big zero on it*
> 
> \--------------
> 
> As always my tumblr is @villruu and my twt @vrillru, i sometimes talk about my fics lol
> 
> Also, AO3 statistics show that only a small percentage of you leave kudos, comments and bookmarks, so if you could do them, i would appreciate it a lot. It really helps the story out, and you can always eliminate them later. And if you like my stuff, i have written some more fics you can check out if u want :]


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